Rules. Whose? Why not mine? The rules I can’t follow are rules I have to change, fit to me. It won’t work the other way round. Confidence makes the rules mine to make, mine to play. Fun. Whatever I get having fun is worth having. Only my rules know me. Why inexpertly interpret someone else’s handbook? For how much longer do I misapply someone else’s tricks? Haven’t I always eschewed tricks? Don’t fake it to make it; just make it! Tricks are fake, failed adaptations. As a diet is to eating. Know yourself and your needs, and you can trust your imagination to get them: Strategy for the honest.

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For the most part, I got what I deserved. The rest, I can’t define. The recipe for humble pie. Bitterness is not an ingredient. I can’t believe my lies to myself. I can’t muster the mental legerdemaine to fool myself–but how would I know? There are always more lies. They are the skin that covers me, but with each moult I feel more protected. Admitting mistakes is easier than hiding from them with one ruse after another. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve, but I’m not privvy to them. They’ll let me know when they happen: I can only put out the fire, not blow out the match. I can complain, but I can’t convince myself I have a complaint.

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Who my age can I possibly impress? and how? We’ve all been through the relationship wringer. We all have our laundry lists. We’ve heard the lines, seen the tricks. There’s nothing left but being yourself or giving up. I never had a line, never had a trick. My success, though meager, was, at least relatively, honest. Hardly the success I needed, though. Now, I’m tired of anything but honesty, which is hard to find, hard to deliver. I see the guards people put up, recognize many as my own, and I let them have them. What is it worth to try to penetrate where you’ve been sternly told not to go? Nothing, I’ve found out. And the jungle gets thicker as you behave and wait for the invitation that will never come. Who ventures from their own jungle? Who machetes a clear path from their heart to another? Who’s to trust with such a clear guide? By now we know what we don’t want, but what does that leave us? We exclude the faults, one by one, until we’ve distilled the perfect, and perfectly unattainable, person. And there you are: Alone as it gets. Perfection isn’t a goal, it’s a death sentence, a resignation to fantasy as the best reality you can muster. Go ahead–you live that. I still have too much hope.